Fran Claro's Food Blog

A Storefront Caravan

“In a quaint caravan, there’s a lady they call the Gypsy,” the song says.

In South Brooklyn at autumn’s end, the quaint caravan isn’t a brightly colored, circus trailer set up for temporary living. It’s a storefront. Any vacant storefront on an avenue can become home to the lady and her family — the Gypsies.

Heavy red and gold drapes hang in the window of their new home, a former tailor shop. The drapes fail to meet in the center, leaving just enough room for people to peek in while passing by. The opulent curtains seem at odds with a very visible canvas-covered ironing board affixed to one wall.

The gap in the window covering serves as a magnet attracting grandsons in the neighborhood. On their way to school, on their way to buy a quart of milk, on their way to climb the schoolyard fence, they stop and stare.

Outside the doorway of a nearby vegetable store, two nonnas meet. One sees three boys looking in the window of what they still call “the tailor’s.” She bites her index finger on a hand held parallel to her lips. “Get away from there!” she shouts at the boys.

The boys make a show of covering their eyes and scoot around the corner.

And this gives the nonnas the chance they have been waiting for, their opportunity to discuss the Gypsies. The topic of the neighborhood newcomers has almost replaced the nonnas’ favorite subject — food.

“We don’t know what goes on in there,” a nonna says. She motions toward the storefront home.

“I notice the young man this morning,” the other says and lowers her voice. “He wears an earring.” She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head in disapproval. But it’s only mild disapproval. “You should see the good job he did fixing that fender on my son’s truck.

“But the old woman worries me,” the other nonna says. “She tells fortunes. Of course, my daughter-in-law is always first in line to hear what the Gypsy has to say.”

“Did her fortune come true?”

“Well, the old woman told my daughter-in-law that she was going to have a baby. That wasn’t a surprise. She was already seven months pregnant.”

Their conversation is interrupted when they see a toddler running out of the tailor shop. The girl starts moving toward the street, and the nonnas make a dash for her. One reaches for the girl when she is inches from the curb. The old woman and the girl’s mother rush out of the store to pick up the girl and to thank the nonnas.

The nonna nods knowingly but says nothing as she passes the girl to her mother. She waves her hand in dismissal when the mother thanks her.

The other nonna is uncharacteristically quiet as she breathes in a spicy scent. She turns to the younger woman. “What are you cooking?” she asks.

“Paprikash,” she says. “It’s a stew with meat and vegetables and paprika.” She recites the ingredients. The nonnas can hear a recipe once and commit it to memory. But this woman does not understand the nonnas’ tradition. Never share a whole recipe. She should leave out at least one ingredient.

As soon as the nonnas are out of earshot, they discuss their close encounter. “They don’t seem so bad,” one says. “And she did tell us about the stew.”